


i can lift you up another semitone

by belgard



Series: black silk, white rose [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970's, A heck ton of it, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Choking, Conveniently Empty Flat, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Face Slapping, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, Lingerie, M/M, Makeup, Making Out, Name-Calling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation, a shit ton of lube involved, brief mentions of voyeuristic behaviour, degradation kink, john could be an mua, kind of?, very light but perhaps not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21559186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: john still has a secret and an imaginative mind, doused in soft silk and satin.roger is red-faced and curious.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: black silk, white rose [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551469
Comments: 14
Kudos: 90





	i can lift you up another semitone

**Author's Note:**

> so . hm. this is a long time coming, but it's here! a part two of something i did long ago, which i promised would be continued by a sequel with roger in tow. i know it's been long and i'm awfully sorry about that, i've been working on many things after that, and things happened. So. but here it is! i do hope my writing's improved over the months this has been delayed, and i hope you'll enjoy this one even more cos this one is quite a Doozy. this has to be my longest work ever - and it's just fucking filth. sigh. anyways -- cheers!
> 
> this is a continuation but you can still read it as a standalone - but read the part 1 if you like. . .for context !
> 
> x  
> (title taken from arctic monkeys' 'four out of five')

There is nothing wrong with bringing yourself to pleasure.

It’s freeing, liberating. It calms you after an entire day of pressure – almost like inhaling, and then exhaling something wonderful. The fall after the intense height an orgasm gives you _always_ feel like such a rush—or at least that’s what John thinks.

He lays across the bed with an arm across his eyes, shielding his vision from the faint light streaming into the room through the lace-thin curtains. His head is a fuzzy mess, heady and hazy in a pleasant way that reminds him all too well of the feeling of an orgasm pulsing red-hot, and then white, and then dropping off a cliff that makes his senses blur into one.

It’s another day in which Fred and Brian are away to discuss stage costumes with one of the _on-trend_ designers in the market these days. And then they would come home with batwing white blouses in paper bags, Freddie pushing the door open with a flourish.

Roger has told him earlier that he was going to get groceries, and of course as sexually-deprived as he is, fueled by his capability – or rather the lack thereof – to properly communicate his thoughts to his own _boyfriend_ , he decided to spend his afternoon in playing dress up, this particular day in a white mini dress with white thigh highs and their matching thigh garters, and a silk, baby pink ribbon which he has tied together to form a small, wonky bow just above the lace trimming of his thigh-high stockings.

He feels fucking _great_.

He reaches down, sticks his hand beneath one of the white elastics pulled taut against his thigh, and snaps it. He bites back a wince.

It was easy for him to imagine more than realise everything. Roger’s voice is something that he hears every single day, in the kitchen at day, in his bedroom at night, in the studios at mid-days. The raspy tone in which he sings in, and the soft melody in which he speaks his mind with. John adores everything about him, even the things that make him want to pull at his own hair out of sheer frustration because _fuck_ , is his boyfriend a right prick sometimes. But John won’t say that lighthanded, because he himself could be just as awful.

He doesn’t know how many times it has been, since the start of him dressing up and satisfying himself with his filthy little thoughts of his lover in bed that he can’t find himself admitting without his entire face turning bright red like an inexperienced schoolboy at the sight of tits.

It’s not like him and Roger are prudes—they’ve shagged multiple times before! All over the house, for god knows how long. But one thing in his mind stays, and have stayed for a long time—Roger is _too_ nice. Far too gentle at times he needs something a little more horrid. Some roughhousing and whispered things that would send shivers down John’s spine, that’s what he wants.

There are situations in which he likes it softer, just to see Roger’s face in the soft haloed light, cradling his face and gazing into his clear blue eyes that never seem to lose their shine. Even when it’s him fucking Roger, he feels as if he doesn’t really know what he wants, but as long as it’s _Roger,_ it just feels right.

He knows that Roger’s got a filthy mouth, lets it run on the daily and in the bedroom, and John has came multiple times before by the aid of Roger saying sweet nothings right onto his skin—still they’ve been nothing horrid.

But even with so much trust in hand, John still finds it hard to verbalise the things he really does think of, and he knows, deep down in his heart, that if he keeps this up with other things – not just sex – everything is going to go downhill.

Communication really is key, but John doesn’t know what to do with it.

* * *

John feels like there’s something odd going on, as time slowly goes by between him and his boyfriend.

It’s a fickle thing that could often get unnoticed, but John notices things like this, having spent so many years being immensely introverted that he resorted most to people-watching, seeing how they interact rather than having an interaction of his own. He had friend, great ones at that, but something more interesting was when he watched other people having rows with each other—a growing feeling that is always so _painfully_ obvious.

He doesn’t feel like something sour is bound to happen between him and Roger, per se, even if it’s not like they’ve never argued or anything of the sorts. They argue, it’s fine, John knows that sometimes, that’s a healthy thing. They fight, they make up. (They argue, they talk about it, and then they fuck.)

Roger avoids eye contact more often these days, or when they do, John doesn’t miss the slight red tint on Roger’s cheeks that appear, albeit fleeting, before he turns away.

He doesn’t know what’s the matter with that, even if Roger still kisses his cheek before he goes to the market in the morning with Freddie to look after their stall.

* * *

It’s another day in which Freddie and Brian go out to get groceries when John decides that he wants to confront Roger about it. It’s damn well weirded him out in a way, because their interaction seem to be nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that Roger has been a bit more... shy with him these days. He doesn’t even know if that’s remotely possible!

“Rog? You there?” he calls out from the corridor leading to the living room.

“’m here! Just watching the telly,” he hears Roger yell back.

John saunters over to the room, finding Roger lounging on the sofa in his pyjamas, eyes on the television with absolutely no interest at all. He walks towards the couch and sits down on it, before dropping his head onto one of Roger’s shoulders. Roger leans his against the crown of his head.

“Rog?”

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?” he says. It’s supposed to be alright, but he still can’t ignore the hesitance crowding his orbit.

“Go ahead, love.”

John can’t help but smile. It’s been years but he still can’t fathom the way that pet name makes a rush of butterflies aflutter in his stomach. It’s like a living cliche, but he loves it.

“We’re alright, yeah?”

He sees Roger reach for the remote, turning the TV off before facing him completely. This all just makes John want to curl up into a ball.

“Why do you – John, _god,_ ‘course we’re alright.” Roger searches for his face, and then he feels hands cupping his cheeks. “Why, ‘s there something wrong?”

John shakes his head, a laugh bubbling in his throat. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I thought _you_ felt there was something wrong. So I’m just. You know.”

He feels Roger pressing a soft kiss onto his forehead. “Nothing wrong, I think. I still love you and you’re still the light of my fucking life if I do say so myself.”

John can’t help it this time. He grins, wide, not caring that it shows the gap-tooth that he has. Which is something that Roger told him, was endearing. He’s grown to love it as time goes by.

“Git.”

“Hey, ‘m not kidding!” Roger says, laughing along with him.

“I trust you, alright,” John says. “So there’s nothing wrong, then? It’s just that you’re being a bit different with me nowadays...”

He sees Roger knitting his eyebrows, bright blue eyes settling deep into his. “Different how?”

John bites his lip—a nervous habit of his, before feeling the tip of Roger’s thumb tugging at it, pulling it down. The action almost makes him blush.

“You’re... shyer, I guess.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, flipping some of his hair to the other side of his shoulder. “Not that much of a difference, but I could see, and I was jus’ wondering if I did something wrong?”

There it is again.

A sudden hint of rose blooms upon the skin of Roger’s fair cheeks, and he sees him look down, almost as if he’s bashful, and John doesn’t exactly know _why_. He didn’t even do anything to evoke a reaction like that, even though Roger blushes quite often under certain ministrations, he doesn’t really understand what makes him flush so bright when he only does something as simple as ask him a question.

“You’re blushing!” John exclaims, a giggle bitten down. “Why’s that, Rog? This is _exactly_ what I’m talking about. You’re not usually like this, you know.”

Roger just shrugs, before leaning his head back against the sofa cushions. John moves to tickle his side, and Roger squirms.

“Come on, Rog, none of that – tell me!”

He even gives his biggest pout, jutting his bottom lip and widening his eyes as best as he can to resemble a doe, complete with the glassy surface and the fluttering lashes. Roger’s shoulders slump at this, visibly, and John cheers for a short while, thinking that perhaps he might just won his boyfriend over.

But Roger just sighs.

“It’s nothing at all,” he hears Roger say. “Promise you, darling.”

John huffs out a breath. “Okay,” he says.

Roger tilts his head. “Okay?”

He just nods in return, finding no luck and resorting to giving up entirely, because he’s got something else to tell and he figures that _this_ must be the perfect time. Forget his nerves and his rapid-beating heart—Roger needs to know. He’s bound to know sooner or later; hidden things are always bound to be found.

He pokes the side of Roger’s shoulder.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, boy,” Roger sits up straighter on the couch, taking a deep breath before releasing it through his mouth in a much dramatic manner that almost makes him roll his eyes. Then he sees Roger looking right at him, eyes wide and so _blue_ beneath the coy marigold light it takes John’s breath away, feels Roger’s hands taking both of his and caressing the skin there. “Please don’t break it off with me, Deaks.”

“What – no!” John exclaims, feeling his own eyes widening as well. “No, no, it’s not that. Not that at all, Rog.”

Roger sighs, loud. “Oh well,” he says, matter-of-fact. “That’s a great fucking relief.”

“But I wanna tell you something else,” John blurts out, eyes flitting all over the place, trying to find anything that could make the tingling in his skin stop for a moment. It’s pushing him, uncomfortable, but it’s something he’s dealt with for a long time, so he focuses on a little rip in Roger’s shirt, and if he sees it long enough, he might just be able to sneak a peek of Roger’s freckled shoulder. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m all ears.” Roger grins wide, teeth exposed.

John just sends him a look. “Rog, I’m serious.”

The other’s features soften, grin turning into a sweet smile that usually charms the front row audience in their gigs. “I’m serious too, you know.” He feels Roger nudging the side of his cheek with his knuckle, the touch fleeting but endearing. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

John braces himself, blinking fast before shaking his head a little, just to gather some of his composure that is still left inside of him.

“Okay?” Roger asks in return.

He nods, before closing his eyes and letting his mouth ramble on. “I’ve got a secret.” He skips over a stutter there – what a relief. “And it’s – um, well. Basically I like to dress up in women’s clothes?”

The end of his statement sounds much more like a question and he doesn’t even know why it does. He want to smack his own face.

He searches for anything in Roger’s expression that might indicates something negative, but he fails to find any. He can’t read Roger at all, actually.

“Please don’t say anything! I know it’s weird an’ all, but it’s just a hobby, nothing else, promise. Not that there’s anything wrong with liking it, I know a lot of people who do and I think they’re fucking rad, alright, hm, but still, Rog, just don’t—“

“John!”

John clamps his mouth shut. He feels Roger cupping his face with both of his hands, before he sees the blond lean closer, pressing a soft kiss onto his lips – that alone just gives him _flutters,_ what – and then onto his left cheek – what! – and then his right – _might just pass out now, Deacon!_

And then Roger bites his lips, before breathing in, and then exhaling. It is all something that’s done in a very quick way, John doesn’t even have time to comprehend.

“You know I’ve got a confession to make of meself. Promise you won’t get mad? It’s alright if you do but...”

“What is it?”

“I kind of...”

“Yeah?”

“Accidentally peeped on you. When you were. Wanking. In... in your lingerie. And that giant jumper.”

John feels his eyes going wide as saucers, heat traveling in the speed of light up to his entire face, the memory of that time coming up to fill his head and now the knowledge that Roger was there to _see_? He might as well explode right about now.

He resorts to something else his mind supplies, and he smacks Roger’s arm with the back of his palm.

“Ow!” Roger exclaims, cradling a hand over with hand as he pouts his pink, pink lips. “What’s that for?!”

“That’s for creepin’ up on me, you randy bastard!” John feels his own heartbeat pacing up. “How... how even – how!”

Roger shields himself with his arms, as if ready for more ambush. “It was an accident, Deaky! I promise you I didn’t mean to! I heard my name multiple times, and I thought you were in pain ‘cos you were borderline screaming,” John feels his face warming up even more, “I went up! Thought my boyfriend was hurt, ‘course my instincts went fucking haywire. And then I peeked through the door and I saw... you.”

His voice grows smaller at the last word, and John softens.

“So you already knew!” John exclaims, groaning loud. “ _Ugh_ , bloody hell.”

Remembering it all, he feels all the sudden, very, very reckless. What if it was Fred and Brian who came home earlier, he thinks to himself, wanting to smack his own head at his own stupidity. Screaming and talking to himself, moaning like mad at the feeling that he made himself feel. But in moments like that, when you’re so close and yet you’re so far away, does it all really matter when all you want is the hazy end of an orgasm?

“Uh, yeah, kind of.” Roger scratches the back of his neck. “One moment I was panicked, the next I was standing there rock hard in me trousers!”

John hits him again, and Roger another ‘ow!’ leaning back on the sofa with his face contorted in both pain and something resembling an urgent need to laugh.

“If you already know then why didn’t you open my wardrobe and snoop around?”

Roger gives him a gentle look then. “’Cos they’re yours, Deaks. I’ve got no right to do that.”

John crosses his arms, but he can feel his own heart melting at the statement. His love for Roger has just grown ten thousand times more, but he doesn’t make that shown. He stays indifference, even if his lips are moments away from smiling.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he feels Roger taking one of his hands and cradling it. He tries to tamper down the way it makes his heart race and his cheeks heat up, but as seen by the smug smile on Roger’s face, his efforts are meaningless. “Deaky, love of my short life. Deaks, baby. I’m sorry, alright. I didn’t mean to do it. And I’m sorry if I breached your privacy. I won’t do it again if it makes you feel upset, ‘cos that’s the last fuckin’ thing I’m going to do.”

John sighs, before reaching over to take one of Roger’s cheek in his hand. It’s soft to the touch, as it always is.

“No, it’s all fine, Rog. I’m just. Thought you might look at me different. Think I’m weird or somethin’.”

“Hey, hey, hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. I think it’s cool. Must be emancipating or something of that sort. I did a lot of drag back when I was a teenager. Won some competitions too, ‘cos have you seen this!” John giggles, smacking the side of his neck. “But I’ve got a feeling you’re not into _drag,_ in particular, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

John lets his body fall down next to Roger on the couch, and the latter scoots aside until the poor couch could stand having the two of them above it. He feels Roger’s hand on his waist, pulling the too-small t-shirt up and caressing the exposed skin there. He feels warm against his skin, and John sighs at the feeling.

“Not drag, not really.”

“Wanna talk to me about it, love?”

He turns his head, only to see Roger’s big, big eyes staring back at him. They’re both _so_ close, and John is _so_ head over heels for him.

“Nothing much to talk about, Rog.” He absentmindedly takes a strand of Roger’s blond hair that’s got its way to John’s neck, and twirls it in his fingers, holding it in place before letting it go, watching how the strand now has turned into a small wave. “It’s just a hobby. I like to wear girls’ clothes sometimes. Feel damn good in them.”

“Look damn good too!”

John smacks him again, this time not being able to resist the urge to laugh, especially now that he hears Roger laughing along next to his ear.

“Stop it,” John says. “Anyhow. It’s just something that I discovered in college, when I was bored and my mates were off somewhere. I liked tinkering in a short dress and lace thigh-highs. Made me look kind of glamorous in a dingy little room full of testosterone.”

“You look glamorous even on this creaky old sofa.”

John feels a smile pulling at his lips, a bloom rising up to his ears in a way that makes him want to cover his own face – and he does that a lot, more often with his hair, but Roger _always_ finds a way to tuck his hair behind his ear, cooing up at him and taking his face in his hands. “Flatterer.”

“Hey, it’s true! I don’t just spew shite out of my mouth.” And then he backtracks: “Eh, that’s a lie.”

John side-eyes him.

“Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m just proud of your self-awareness.”

“Ugh, fuck off.”

The mood just slowly deflates from something heavy into something that John is familiar with, especially when it involves Roger. Things feel comfortable, honest, like he can spill everything out. He sits up on the sofa, lets his legs lay over Roger’s thighs, humming in content at the feeling of Roger’s hand on his knee, rubbing small circles over the jeans. It’s quiet, but it’s calming, it’s pleasant.

He doesn’t even know what time is it, but there’s a faint noise of a crowd somewhere outside, a fleeting sound that breaches the windows and the walls, indicating the outside world that is now very much alive. At this time on any other day, Roger would be with Freddie at the stall, tending to giggling, red-faced teenage patrons as they let their hands graze through silk dresses, and their gaze pointed directly at Roger.

He would know – he’s seen it happen. He feels nothing about it, nothing other than pride and somehow, love, because _that’s my boyfriend you’re looking at!_

“Um, John?” Roger’s rasp cuts through the ambient silence in a crescendo, and John tilts his head to face him, still lying on the sofa with his hair spewed all over the brown sofa. He notices how Roger’s locks have turned into somewhat of a strawberry blonde shade—perhaps it was the heat? (Roger _has_ been talking about dyeing his hair peroxide blonde lately...)

“Yeah?”

He feels Roger taking his chin with two of his fingers, grasping at the skin there gently. “Why were you screaming my name? Were you... were you thinking of me?”

John bites on his own lip. Here we fucking go.

“I was, yeah.” He tries to sound casual, and fails horribly. “That doesn’t... weird you out, does it?”

“No! No, it’s fine, Deaks,” Roger replies. “It’s just. It was really fucking sexy, if I’ve got to say so myself. Don’t hit me!” Roger raises both of his arms over his body when John has his hand raised to smack a playful slap over his arm. “And then I saw you, hitting yourself. Snapping that garter on your own thigh... Doesn’t that hurt, sweetheart?”

There’s something so _warm_ in the way Roger looks at him, and John wants to melt in it, melt in the pools of blue overtaking his irises. His eyes are so wide and beautiful and earnest, and John can’t even believe the fact that he even thought about Roger being anything other than understanding to him.

John looks away. “That’s the point. I wanted it to hurt.”

“Oh.”

“You must think I’m weird now, alright.”

“Deaky, none of that, okay?” He feels Roger tilting his head back with the grip he has on his chin, and John has no choice but to face his boyfriend in this small, small space.

“What were you thinking of? Tell me.”

John snaps his eyes to meet his, tries to warn him through his gaze. “Rog...”

“What, ‘s alright.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the charming blue of Roger’s eyes that _always_ melts him away, or the hand on his waist that’s rubbing small calming circles against his skin, or Roger’s fingers on his chin, but everything makes his walls crumble down.

“Fine. Alright.”

“See? Right, now tell me. The others are out, anything’s safe with me.”

John can’t bear to look at him in the eye, so he resorts to look at a small tear in the hem of Roger’s shirt instead.

“I thought of you. Hitting me, pulling my hair, choke me a little, slapping and dragging me around... and the likes. Y’know, it’s just things like that. And then I thought of you calling me, uh, names.”

“What sort of names, Deaky?”

John can feel his own face reddening. “Um. Names like, y’know... _Names_.”

He tries to get the message across with his eyes, but he doesn’t really know if Roger understands _exactly_ what he means and is just taking the piss, or if Roger actually doesn’t. He can get oblivious at times, and John isn’t really sure if kink negotiations are particularly their forte. They’ve been mostly vanilla, anyways.

“Don’t suppose you get off to me calling you Reginald. Or Hamish. Or, god forbid, Maverick.”

He feels a chuckle bubbling out of his lips. “No, nothing like that. Um... I thought of you calling me names. How do I _say_ it? You’re making this so difficult, god.”

“What did Imaginary Roger Taylor say to you, babe?”

“I thought of you calling me a whore. Slut, things like that. Degrading me like I’m nothing. While you fuck me.” He groans, and runs a hand over his own face. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

He feels Roger running his fingers though his hair, and he leans into it, calming himself down.

“Nothing embarrassing about that, John. God knows all sorts of fantasies I had when I was younger.” Roger then presses a kiss onto the top of his head, and he just _melts_. “I’ll be nice. Even if you've got weird fetishes. This isn't so weird, though - honestly expected more from you.” He makes a little disappointed look at John rolls his eyes at.

“The thing is I was upset! You’re always so gentle with me and that’s fine, that’s lovely – brilliant, even. But I like it when you bruise me up, y’know. Make it hurt once in a while. Tell me what to do and make me feel like I’m just yours. Been wanting to tell you this for a long time but I just...couldn’t. And now it’s out.”

“This is why talking to each other is important. How the fuck would I know if you’re such a kinky little fuck if you never told me? I still love you all the same, you know.” He feels Roger tugging at one of the ends of his hair playfully, and John just groans, looking away while the skin of his cheeks burn at their will. “And nothing will change that.”

“Sap.” John bites down a smile, but he sees Roger sit up from his peripheral vision, and when he turns his head, Roger’s face is right _there_ , merely inches away from his. He feels one of Roger’s fingers tugging at the corner of his lips, pulling it away from the grasp of his teeth.

“ _Your_ sap, yeah?”

John circles an arm around his neck, pulling him closer to rest his forehead against Roger’s.

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“Fucking wanker.”

John snorts, and when Roger gets it, he does just the same.

“A whole new meaning to it now, hm, Deaky?”

“Sod off.”

And then he feels Roger pulling him closer by dragging his elbow in, pressing a kiss at the spot near his ear when he whisper against the skin there, “If you want me to do things when we shag, you better tell me, ‘cause I just might be into it.”

John pulls away, eyes wide as he freezes in his spot. “I—you mean...? Rog?”

Roger just gives him a sly little look and casually shrugs. “Hm.”

John smacks him again. “You—!”

His boyfriend just laughs, dodging more of that to no avail as they fall back onto the cramped up sofa.

* * *

“You two look awfully domestic,” a voice says from the door, along with a barely contained giggle, and John doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that it’s Fred and Brian. He focuses on the feeling of Roger’s fingers running through his hair, a gentle little feeling that makes his heart spark alight.

“Fuck off, Fred,” he hears Roger mumble beneath him.

“Hey, he’s got a point, Rog,” he hears Brian say next, and then the sound of light-weight bags dropping down against counters come in to surge his hearing. “It’s cute, you know. Nothing wrong with Deaky tainting your reputation.”

“Our Deaky’s tainted more than that, Brian, dear,” he hears Freddie say with a gleeful little giggle, and then followed by Brian’s, and then followed by Roger’s little ‘Oi, shut up!’

John lets himself be known, before turning his head to the side and smiling brightly up at the sight of Freddie and Brian in the kitchen, unpacking the groceries and placing them on the counter.

“Deaky! God, isn’t John such a sight for sore eyes?” Freddie teases, and John lets out a little laugh at that.

“Stop that, ya fuckin’ rotter,” Roger says with no malice, and John feels him tucking a strand of his brown hair behind his ear. “He’s mine first.”

“No dibs on people, Rog darling.”

“Dibs on _this_ one, though,” Roger says, and John tightens his hold on Roger’s waist, nuzzling his face closer to his neck. Roger feels warm all over, and he wants to drown himself in it.

And then he feels the tip of Roger’s finger booping the tip of his nose.

He scrunches it out of instinct.

Freddie coos, and Brian _aww_ ’s.

“Adorable!” Freddie says, as if he’s found a new scientific breakthrough.

* * *

John decides that the next time they do it – _god_ , he can’t even think of it without blushing like a schoolboy – he wants it the way he does, and he’s got a small feeling in his chest that maybe Roger likes that sort of thing too, if whatever he said back then had been an indication whatsoever. Roger likes implications, but this time John needs certainty more than any other time.

He knows it’s something that _he_ likes, and Roger is usually up for anything but he needs to be absolutely sure. He’s not going to be some arsehole that does things the way he wants without no remorse whatsoever to other people.

He’s going to talk to Roger again, he promises that to himself – but he doesn’t really know _how_.

Last time it was spontaneous, almost like a click and the dam bursts out. That sort of thing isn’t something that just comes naturally to him – ha, _comes_ , he jokes in his mind – and he thinks Roger did coax him with those ridiculous eyes of his, but he still can’t talk about them like it’s the weather. It’s a sensitive topic! Or perhaps it is, for _him_. Perhaps other people talk about things like this with their lovers easily, a bit like chatting.

God, he thinks to himself. He wants to hit his head against the wall. Why is this stressing me out? – he asks himself that, getting no answer in return. Or even if he does, the rational part of him would say something snarky and he’d just ignore it, giving it a little nudge and a cheeky ‘piss off.’

He’s talked about it before with Roger, and he said: “Tell me whatever you want when we’re gonna shag – if I’m for it then I’ll try to do my best ‘cos I love _youuuu_.”

Roger said it so casually that it baffled him a little, but still, he expects that from his boyfriend, someone as spontaneous as him.

John rolls his eyes playfully, hand raised up to pinch Roger’s cheek. The blond just squawks.

“You always do your best,” John says, smiling. “Dork.”

Roger makes a kissy face up at him.

And then John adds candidly: “Even when you come early. But that’s _exactly_ why I wrote ‘Misfire’! Out of my love for you, Rog!”

He snorts when Roger gasps dramatically, before landing a hard slap on the side of his arm.

“You little—“

* * *

A few days have passed and they have left John’s heart pacing. And also his legs. Fingers jittery by his sides as he opens up his wardrobe, looking for something that he could wear when he’s with Roger... some other time.

There are silk dresses that closes tight around his thighs and rises up rather tantalisingly whenever he bends over—the fabric would be pulled up taut against the growing thickness and exposes his arse like something out of a porn film. His face reddens at that. Perhaps not, but some _other,_ other time.

He has a small collection of blouses and skirts, made of silk and light satin and soft velvet—some of them he has tried to integrate into his stage costume. And Freddie asked about it he’d say his female friends from uni likes to watch them perform and they like to give away old clothes. Because they’re caring like that.

Freddie ate that up with a flick of his rhinestone-adorned wrist, excited that John was emerging from his shell and has grown to be more accepting of a little bit of style and makeup. Brian just smiled at him, nodding his agreement.

He has some sheer stockings at the bottom of his wardrobe, some full-length, some being thigh-highs with small slots for thigh garters. Most of them are in black and white, one being a light pink pair with small, matching pink bows on the side.

He doesn’t really wear that a lot, since his clothes are mostly in black and white. Even his red velvet skirt doesn’t really match the shade of pink the stockings have.

But then something strikes his mind.

His hand fishes in, before taking out a sheer blouse, a skirt, and a pair of stockings.

Holding them up to light, he feels his lips spreading into a smile.

* * *

Freddie and Brian are conveniently out of the flat, _again._

They’ve somehow decided that they’d take care of the stage costumes, particularly the ones that they’ve commissioned designer Zandra Rhodes from, and some accessories up in the vintage marker. They’ve always had the best eye for things like that, and Brian keeps Fred from getting carried away—so they’re a good match.

Which is precisely why John is sitting on Roger’s lap, right on their living room sofa, jeans straining and heart pacing, as he kisses his boyfriend with any fervour left in his body. He lets out a small whine when he feels Roger’s hands gripping on his waist desperately, pulling him closer and closer until he feels hot all over.

His own hands come up to tangle his fingers in the tresses of Roger’s fair locks, lightly gripping onto them and coaxing out a groan out of him. John bites down a smile, swiping his tongue against Roger’s bottom lip, grunting when the other tugs on his. 

“ _Mmh,_ Rog,” he manages to get out.

“Yeah, babe?”

“Do you wanna...?” He leaves it open because he just _can’t_ , but he knows Roger knows exactly what he means with the way he’s smoothing down his hands on the sides of John’s body. He sees Roger smiling up at him, before feels Roger’s thighs spreading wider, which prompts his own to spread just as wide, his crotch pressed flat against Roger’s in a way that sends a small shiver up his spine.

“What?” He sees Roger leaning closer, before biting right on the base of his throat, licking the spot there and sucking on the junction between his neck and shoulder until they bruise. John would know—he bruises so fucking easily it aggravates him sometimes.

“Rog...”

“Deaky...” Roger repeats, teasing, and John sends a glare that fades in the speed of light when Roger grinds up against him.

John feels his own mouth opening, a small gasp tumbling out that no doubt satisfies Roger _very_ much, if the way he’s grinning so smugly is an indication of that sorts. He sighs.

“Bastard,” he says, and Roger just laughs as he runs a hand though his hair. “Do you wanna fuck?”

“Thought you’d never say!”

“You’ve showered, right?” John narrows his eyes.

Roger sighs. “Christ, ‘course I have, you heathen.”

“Great.”

“Have _you?_ ”

“I have!”

“Wonderful. So that’s sorted out.”

“And,” John adds before pausing, feeling his cheeks reddening as he pulls away slightly to gather his composure and make sure that he’s in the right mind while he’s saying this, and he wants to make sure that Roger knows it too, “and I want to do it. Dress up.”

Roger stops, eyes staring up at his as he sees him slowly nod his head. John sees the way Roger’s cheeks grow redder and redder, just as his eyes turn darker and darker.

“And I want you to...” John bites on his lip, eyes flickering away from Roger’s before he feels a hand on his cheek that brings him back to Roger, in a way. “I want you to just do whatever you fucking want to me, Rog. I’ll tell you when I hate it.”

“Call you names, slap you ‘round, typical roughhousing?” Roger asks, voice low and slightly raspier in a way that makes John’s heart skip.

He nods. “So you remember.”

Roger smiles. “Don’t you doubt me in that.”

John moves away from Roger’s lap, a smile tugging at his own lip as he distances himself. “I’m gonna get myself ready,” he says. “I’ll call you.”

Roger huffs out a laugh. “Alright, Deaks.”

“Okay?”

“Okay!”

John walks to their room with his mind in a frenzied storm, wondering how the _fuck_ this could happen, but the way he’s hard in his trousers clearly indicates that he’s whole-heartedly glad for it.

* * *

He tries to be quick, because no one wants to be left blue-balled just because he takes too long to get ready.

His makeup is done; just some simple strokes of coral-coloured blusher across his cheeks that make him look like he’s got a healthy flush on—or perhaps it just makes him look desperately aroused. He’s dabbed on some lipstick with the tip of his ring finger, a faint reddish-pink shade that he applied at the centre of his lips before blending them towards the outer part of his lips in a way that doesn’t make him look like a clown. Not too overbearing – John thinks it looks a little adorable. A sudden thought of Roger messing up the lipstick makes him shiver, but he sets it aside before he takes a small eyeshadow palette, brushing a light coating of brown near the line of his eyelashes, giving a slight effect that his eyes are darker.

As a final touch, he takes the tube of black mascara and applies some on his lashes, just to make his eyes look wider. Bat the lashes in the right way and John thinks that they could look almost flirtatious.

He sighs when he’s done, before taking a look at himself in the outfit he has chosen—a sheer black blouse with a plunging neck line that’s tied together with a black ribbon and puffed-up sleeves, a black velvet skirt, and a pair of black thigh-high stockings with a lace trimming that’s pulled up with matching black thigh garters. He can see the garter belt around his waist through the sheer blush, and a voice in his mind tells him that it’s lewd.

He might just have to agree this time.

In a hurried move, he makes sure his blouse is a little lopsided, revealing his shoulder, before digging his fingers in his hair to fluff it up a bit, giving it some volume.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, he almost widens his eyes in surprise—he looks like he’s been debauched.

But he shakes his head, inhales, exhales.

“Rog!”

A faint thudding of Roger running up the stairs, _rapid_ , is felt in the form of vibrations against his own, stocking-covered feet. He almost laughs at it, but then is reminded of his slight nervousness even if he knows that it’s all going to be fine.

It’s _Roger_ , for god’s sake.

“You done, Deaks?” comes Roger’s voice behind the locked door. “Been touching myself waiting for you, bet your arse I was glad that Fred and Bri didn’t just burst through the door.”

John throws his head back and laugh. “They’d be traumatised.”

“No, I bet they’re gonna get all randy and shit.”

His face scrunches up. “Ew, Rog.”

“So can I get in now?”

“Wait! Don’t face the door just yet, face the other way,” he says a little frantically from inside the room, in a volume that he knows Roger can hear just as well.

“Fine,” he hears Roger reply. “Anything for you.”

He braces himself, before grabbing the doorknob and unlatching the lock.

There stands Roger with his back to him, blond hair wild from his constant habit of running his hand through it and doing little experiments of a hairstyling technique called ‘teasing,’ something that Roger found in one of the _Jackie_ magazine’s latest issues. He reckons that it was on the page with the big orange headlines—EASY HAIRSTYLES FOR HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS. John’s got to say that the look suits him very, _very_ much.

“Close your eyes before you turn around.” John bites his lips, swallows down his nerves with whatever pride he’s got left. “You’re gonna see me in full Midlands bird beauty, Rog.”

Roger snorts. “Sure you’re prettier than any lass all over Britain.”

“Sod off. Close your eyes, I tell you.”

Shockingly, Roger does exactly as he’s told. Even covers his eyes with both of his hands when John places his hands on Roger’s shoulders, guiding him gently towards the bed at the corner of the room. Roger has got a little hop in his steps that almost makes John break apart into laughter, but he bites it down, holding his breath as he guides Roger on their bed.

Roger’s got his legs pulled up into his chest on the bed when he sits on top of it, scooting himself towards the edge.

“Guide me through this, Deaks – what am I starting with?”

John rolls his eyes, before poking one of his ribs. “You act like we’re working on a project.”

“Let’s make an amp, babe. I wanna call it the Deacon-Taylor.”

“I—what.”

“Nevermind.” Roger’s shoulders slump, and he looks so irresistibly _adorable_ that John can’t help it when he lets his hand ruffle the blond mop on top of his lover’s head.

“Don’t open your eyes just yet, Rog.”

“Each of your requests is now my only purpose in life, but bloody hell, get on with it!”

John groans as he takes a few steps back, legs trembling slightly from the nerves that have chosen its time to consume his entire body. The floor suddenly feels all too cold. He takes a deep breath, and then exhales it through his mouth.

“M’kay, open your eyes.”

Roger takes his hands off.

His reactions are recorded in John’s mind like he’s a personified lens, taking each frame of images in marvelous Technicolour. He’s got every single shade right—from the warm undertones of Roger’s hair, and down to the tan of his skin. The pink of his cheeks, and the evergrowing storm in his blue irises. The way the colours turn darker and darker—along with the way John’s body turn warmer and warmer, blood surging in his veins like a system going into overdrive at the sight of Roger’s reaction to seeing him like _this_ alone.

“...Rog?”

It’s as if something has turned. Like a light flickering off. Or a curtain being pulled open. John doesn’t really know what it is, but it’s got his heart beating _fast._

Roger takes his time in eyeing him up, and John can _feel_ his gaze from the top of his head to the end of his toes. His legs feel weak beneath the lace, and his makeup feels too heavy.

The blond now leans back, placing one of his hands on a spot on the bed, right behind him as leverage. John sees him tilt his head to the side, and then back.

The air feels like it’s something he can touch, can feel like it’s something solid. John is suffocating in it, but he wants more of it, wants more of Roger’s gaze on him, taking him apart inch by inch.

He almost squirms.

“Come here, John.”

_Oh._

He sees Roger spreading his thighs on the edge of the bed, black trousers against stark white sheets, and John just wants to crawl into it. He walks there slowly, toes almost faltering beneath the fabric of his stockings, so thin that he can feel the coldness of the wooden floorboards, the sensation traveling up his spine now that his senses are heightened by arousal.

He stands between Roger’s spread legs, looks down because he can’t _stand_ to stare up into Roger’s eyes. He knows they’re much darker now, knows when Roger’s all riled up. Knows it best, even. But when he feels Roger’s hand gripping his chin gently just to tilt it up, he’s forced to look at his own lover, and for some unknown reason now he can’t look away. Not when Roger looks like _that_ , skin barely flushed with a soft shade of rose, eyes stern like he wants to eat him whole.

And then Roger is touching him _everywhere._ His calloused palms are riding up, starting from his waist, on the exposed skin in which Roger pulls the sheer blouse out of the black skirt from, and then down to his thighs, against the thigh garters, against the lace trimming of his thigh-high stockings – up _again_ – he feels Roger press into his hips, his arse through the fabric of his lace knickers, and then up against his waist, his shoulders, his neck, and his warmed-up cheeks.

Roger is looking at him with so much _warmth_ in his eyes that John can’t help but preen a little. There’s only so little thing he can do before he falters and melts.

“You’re gorgeous, _god_ ,” Roger says then, and he feels him brush the back of his hand against his cheek in which he has dusted some light pink blusher onto. “So fucking pretty, fucking hell.”

John lets out a small laugh at that. “Thank you.”

“Did that all yourself, huh?” He feels Roger brush the tip of his thumb against his lips, a light little touch perhaps in consideration so that he doesn’t ruin John’s lightly-painted on lipstick, but honestly, John wants him to wreck his makeup. “You’re so good at doing your makeup too, what the hell.”

“Learnt it from Fred and his girlfriend,” he replies bashfully.

“And the bastard has never told me about it,” Roger huffs out, and John chuckles. “Wanker.”

“Don’t blame him,” he says. “He doesn’t know about all this, you know. I just asked them kind of, um, casually, I suppose. I think I’ve put whatever they taught me to good use, yeah?” He tries to be cheeky, but Roger is still looking at him like _that_ and he is on the brink of fainting from want.

“So proud of my baby,” Roger says, and he almost lets out a purr when Roger runs his hand through his hair, the touch so gentle, but the hint of sharpness in the tug that Roger does to the base just makes him hungry for more. “You look beautiful, Deaky. I mean it. Prettier than all of London. Pretty _and_ handsome – fuck, how’d I get so lucky?”

John lets out a giggle, before he slaps the side of Roger’s arm gently. “Ugh, stop that.”

“Hey, it’s true, you know.” He then feels Roger pulling him closer by his waist, before whispering close enough that he can feel his hot breath, “Makes me want to ruin you even more.”

John feels his breath stuttering out. The playful mood suddenly changes just like that, like a flick of the wrist, and there’s a haze clouding over them, something warm and hot and _sweet._ “Do whatever you want to me.”

“Safeword?” Roger asks—and that’s when it dawns upon John that Roger is _familiar_ with this. He’s done something similar before. The thought of that relieves him a little, somehow.

“The colour system,” John replies surely. “You know that one?”

Roger just sends him a cheeky wink. “Sure do.”

He leans forwards, capturing Roger’s lips in a gentle kiss that keeps his blood thrumming low in his veins, heart beating in a steady rhythm that progressively grows faster because _god_ , he loves him so much.

And then Roger’s hands come down, gripping onto his arse beneath his short skirt that barely cover his thighs. Roger grips it rough, like he knows exactly what that does to him, and he gasps, leaning his body closer only for Roger to latch his mouth onto his exposed neck.

John has got to admit – his arse is quite alright. Roger seems to appreciate it very much and the others think it looks damn well amazing. He used to dance at night, at clubs, and at his room whenever he’s got nothing to do at all, and it seems like that habit earned him a pert arse and firm thighs. No regrets whatsoever, especially now, with the way Roger’s kneading him though the lace.

“Always loved your arse, Deaks,” he hears him whisper. “Love seeing you dance in those tight fucking trousers. But this...”

John feels himself biting back a smirk like he’s hit the mark. _Fuck yes._

“Turn around for me?” Roger says, and John does exactly that.

He turns around slowly so that he’s facing the wall, and then he gathers the sides of his skirt and pull them up taut, exposing his arse as he bend over just a little bit to pop it out.

He hears Roger take in a sharp breath behind him, and he almost fists the air in prideful victory.

“Fucking hell.”

And then he feels Roger’s hands on his waist, pulling him back so urgently that he lets out a surprised yelp, prompting him to drop his arse on Roger’s lap, arse out and all. He feels something hard between his cheeks, and his cheeks warm up at the realisation when it dawns upon him.

“See what you’re doing to me, Deaky?” Roger asks, gathering his locks of hair and throwing it over to the side to he can press kisses onto the side of his neck.

When John looks up, he can see his own reflection in the mirror across the bed that’s attached to the wardrobe, and he tilts his head sideways, wanting more of Roger’s heat on him. His mascara-coated lashes feel heavy, almost as if he’s bearing their weight, the strands casting faint shadows over the surface of his cheeks like some kind of a Marilyn Monroe-silhouette.

John grinds his hips down, right against Roger’s clothed groin.

His boyfriend groans loud – so fucking _pretty_ – hands coming to up to grip on his waist in a vice.

“John.”

He just lets out a small laugh. “Sorry, Rog.”

“Don’t be naughty,” he hears him say against the back of his neck, voice warm and steely at the same time. It’s almost like gravel against a smooth dune, tumbling over, and John finds himself lost in it. He tilts his head back, chasing the sensation like a man starved. “I thought you were a good little slut. Or am I mistaken, baby?”

John almost doubles over. _Fuck_ , hearing that in real-time, next to his ear, against his skin... he might never wank the same way again. Ever.

He feels Roger land a warning slap over his thigh, the sting absolutely delicious that John has to bite on his own lip to muffle any kind of noise that threatens to spill out of his lips like a wild, unguarded thing. Roger rubs a soothing hand over the reddening spot, and John lets out a sigh, head in the clouds.

“I’m gonna,” John struggles to get out, “I’m gonna prove it to you. Just... just that.”

“Prove me what, sweetheart?”

John gulps down his nerves, chest fluttering at the pet name, letting arousal consume his entire body like a heatwave. “That I’m a,” he clears his throat and manages out, voice steady: “That I’m a good little slut.”

He feels Roger kissing his cheek, eyes meeting his in the reflection the mirror emits. They look like such a _sight_ , and it evokes a strange feeling in the pit of John’s stomach—something hot, something primal, and it’s going to make him lose his mind.

But he’s going to love every single moment of it.

Roger pushes up into him a little, and John lowers his head, cock twitching in his lace knickers at the feeling of Roger’s hardness up against his barely-covered skin. He feels almost scantily-clad even if he’s fully clothed, but beneath Roger’s touches and gaze, he feels like he’s exposed, wearing nothing at all but his lack of regret and modesty.

“Enough of that,” he hears Roger say. “Get up, on the bed.”

John scrambles, gets on his hands and knees as he stumbles over onto the bed, legs wobbly from excitement and a little hint of nervousness tugging at his heartstrings, before sitting in the centre of the white duvet with his hands on his lap, eyes searching for Roger.

“Get on your back,” Roger orders, voice low but still so familiarly _him_ , and John has never scrambled into position so fast in his life.

He brings his arms up until his elbows are pressed near his chest, bracing himself to take whatever it is that Roger wants to give him, and whatever it is he’s going to give him in return.

His lover crawls towards him on the bed, eyes a crazed stormy haze, and John holds his breath when he feels Roger’s hand on his thighs. His hands are rough, and John just can’t get enough of it.

And then he feels Roger’s hands on the back of his knees, pulling them up and spreading him apart, exposing him in the filthiest way. John is positively leaking beneath the lace, and when he instinctively moves to get his knees down on the bed again, Roger pulls it up again easily, keeping it there with force.

John whimpers, teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard he’s sure the indent it makes must be white.

“Hold them up for me,” Roger says, and John looks away as he gets both of his hands behind the back of his knees, holding his legs high up.

He sets his eyes back onto his lover, because even if he feels a little dirty, a little bashful, he just can’t help it. He sees Roger biting down on his red bottom lip, the tip of his tongue darting out to swipe against the velvet surface, hand touching John’s stocking-covered calf, before moving up to rest on the inside of his thigh, fingers spread out and steady.

“God, _look at you_.”

It happens in a motion blur—John almost lets out a whimper, before Roger surprises him and takes his breath right out of his lungs, ducking his head to latch his mouth onto the exposed skin of John’s inner thigh, biting and sucking and licking, turning him all shades of pink and purple. John feels his own eyes roll back, the grip he has on his own legs tightening to keep them up.

“Ro— _Rog_ ,” he breathes out.

“Hm?”

Roger grips onto his skin, hard.

“ _Hmph_ ,” is the only thing John manages to let out as he lolls his head back against the sheets.

Roger unlatches himself, and John for a moment takes a breath at the pause, before his serenity is disturbed by the harsh smack Roger lands on the bruised skin.

John’s thighs twitch, and he lets out a deep groan – the sound bouncing off the walls.

“Rog!”

The other just lets out a small chuckle, lifting his head up to reveal his flushed face, blue eyes tainted with some kind of devilish veil over them, and he braces himself when Roger places a hand over his leaking cock. He chokes on a breath, feeling like his head is spinning when Roger runs the tip of his finger along the strained, damp black lace.

John, not able to take it anymore, bucks his hip up to grind against whatever friction he can get.

Roger pauses, almost like a movement abruptly halted, before he feels him land another strike onto the inner part of his other thigh. John doubles over, keens at the sharp heat it emits, the sensation crawling up his spine and spreading everywhere like an ever-growing vein.

“Fuck, _yes_ , Rog,” he breathes out, eyes closed.

But Roger is silent. He doesn’t even move, and the hand on his crotch is retracted.

Time stills, and John’s heartbeat quickens in pace.

Then he feels Roger pulling his knickers taut against his cock, making the rough surface graze over his sensitive tip. It’s torture, but it sends a spark of heat in the pit of his stomach, punching out a wanton moan out of his mouth.

“Fuck!”

Roger clicks his tongue as he grips onto his cock so tight it hurts – that condescending bastard. “Did I give you permission to get off, hm? Rutting on my hand like a nasty little bitch in heat. I bet if I told you to get off on my shoe you’d do it.”

John whines.

Something in Roger’s eyes spark alight, and John wants to cry. “You _really_ would,” he hears him say, voice wavering until a small smile tugs over his lips. “That’s pathetic, John.”

John just sends him a dopey little smirk that probably makes him look well-wrecked and crazed. He opens his mouth wide, tongue lolling out the side as he tilts his head, taunting as he tries to coax another reaction out of him. “Not pathetic ‘f it gets me off,” he replies cheekily.

Roger just chuckles. “Guess it’s really not.”

He feels Roger letting go of his cock, and he almost lets out a whine of disappointment at that, before he feels something else poking his parted lips. It’s Roger’s fingers, he thinks to himself, two of them, waiting. And then Roger pries them open himself, places them flat against his teeth to drag his mouth open, before sticking them inside and thrusts it back and forth in John’s mouth.

He closes his mouth around it, looking up at Roger though his lashes as he tries his best to bob his head up and down as if he’s sucking on Roger’s cock, hollowing his cheeks. He tries to be flirty, tries to be coy and let the heat in his stomach flares up, white-hot. It makes him feel in control, because Roger gasps above him, eyelids flickering like he’s trying to hold himself together.

That’s what John wants – for him to lose his mind.

It isn’t until he feels Roger quickening up that he realises he’s completely helpless, jaw slacking as the pace Roger’s setting becomes too fast for him to keep up with. He lets his mouth be used as Roger drags onto the surface of his tongue, moving as if he’s fucking into John’s mouth.

They reach the back of his throat, and John gags.

But Roger doesn’t stop.

John doesn’t want it to stop, either.

The more Roger keeps pushing his fingers in and out of his mouth, the more he feels like he’s close to tears, and when he feels Roger grinding against him, he finds that it’s all he needs to break apart.

He lets tears flow over his cheeks, messing up his makeup in the process as he sticks his tongue out, only for Roger to drag onto it, before pushing his fingers back in. John eagerly closes his mouth around him once more, feeling drool all over his chin. Roger laps them up with his fingers, before pushing them back again into the heat of his mouth.

“Filthy slut.”

John whimpers out, a weak little sound that makes his cheeks flush bright red. He’s sure that it’s gone down to his chest as well, so saturated that it could be visible through his sheer blouse.

Roger takes his fingers out, ignores him when he tries to make grabby hands up at him.

John pouts, jutting out his lip.

He doesn’t know what it is about moments like these, but the sudden need to be pampered is just too strong to resist, even with his skirt flipped up and his eyes glassy. He feels sexy, he feels pretty. He feels desperately _wanted_ , with the way Roger’s eyes darken at the sight of him. His legs move, and he wants Roger to know that the sight of him in moments like this gets him off too; Roger always looks beautiful, but with his hair a mess and his cheeks red, eyes glazed over as his lips part, John thinks that Roger looks absolutely delectable.

“Let’s get you out of these, yeah?” Roger asks, fingers grazing the fabric of his knickers.

He nods a reply. “Mm, please do.”

Roges moves to take the clasps of the thigh garters off, before hooking his fingers into the hem of his lace knickers, but not before looking up for some sort of approval. John nods his reply, and then the next moment his knickers are off.

“There—there’s lube and condoms on the drawers,” John manages to get out, before letting his arm lay across his eyes, covering them.

The bed shifts, indicating that Roger is up to get them.

There’s a faint beating of his heart that he can hear in his ears, and he isn’t sure if Roger can hear it too, but he’s so full of anticipation that he’s positively thrumming with it.

He takes his arm off his eyes, and almost groans as the sight of Roger taking his shirt off, before throwing it somewhere below the bed. His hand is on his belt when he looks up, meeting John’s eyes.

“Come over here, John,” he hears him say.

John blinks, before getting on his hands and kness, crawling over to where Roger is kneeling on the bed, before looking up at his lover with a look that shows him just how much he _wants_. There’s lube and and packet of condom right next to his leg when he turns his head, and he smiles up at Roger, mouth right in front of his covered crotch.

He arches his back just a little, and it’s a small movement but he’s sure Roger notices, with the way he lets out a little groan right after. Roger is always so responsive, and it makes everything so easy. When he likes or dislikes something, John would know. And then they’d know if they should switch it up or keep going.

John bites his lip at the sight of Roger unzipping his trousers, pulling them down just a bit to reveal his pants beneath.

When Roger pulls himself out, he can see how Roger is leaking, red, desperate.

Instinctively, and purely out of want, John circles his hand around the tip and slides down to the base, almost groaning at the heat on his palm that spreads all over his body.

Then, all of the sudden in a shock that takes John by immense surprise, Roger grabs his chin and lands a smack so hard it throws him slightly off balance, head thrown to the side but still secured by Roger’s hold on him. He feels tears pricking on the corners of his eyes, but the little whine that he lets out is almost humiliating, and it makes his body heat up, cheeks red from attention. It doesn’t even occur to him that he’s let his tears spill out of his eyes, not until Roger taunts him.

“Such a pretty face you’ve got, sweetheart,” he hears Roger say, thumb rubbing small circles on the hot skin of his face. “I’d take my time ruining it.” He feels the tip of Roger’s thumb on the corner of his bottom lip, dragging it down until it’s back on his chin. Roger tuts at whatever sight he has made of him. “Look at that. Your makeup’s all messy, honey. Wanna take a look?”

He doesn’t say anything, but Roger moves aside, prompting him to meets his reflection in the mirror across the bed, and he almost gasps at the sight of him.

His eyes are glassy with fresh tears, some of the tear-tracks coloured a fading black from his ruined mascara, and as he keeps on looking, he notices the way his lipstick is smeared on the side, a hazy red dragged down messily down his chin from the side of his bottom lip. His cheeks are flushed pink, but one side of it is far redder than the other. Rose-like, hot with blood. It was all Roger, he realises, and before he can stop himself, a dreamy little grin pulls the corners of his lips, making him look like a madman.

He hears Roger laugh next to him, before his reflection is covered by his lover’s body once more. And then he feels fingers threading through his hair, gripping slightly at the tresses. John looks up though his lashes, smile still on his face as he lets Roger’s hand loll his head.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

He nods, a giggle tumbling out of his lips even if he still feels a tear dripping on his cheek.

“You’re dirty, John,” Roger says, his thumb laid flat on the surface of his hot cheek, dragging it side to side, no doubt making more of a mess on his face. John closes his eyes, leaning onto the touch with pure desperation and the desire to be owned. “ _So_ fucking filthy. You’re so pretty like this – d’you want more, baby?”

John nods, a little frantic. “ _Mmh_ , baby wants more. Give—give me more.”

He smiles when Roger hisses above him, and when he opens his eyes, he sees the way Roger looks at him, eyes a mad storm that threatens to put destruction. He reckons he doesn’t look much different – his blood is running in his veins with a kind of fervour that isn’t quite there before, heart pumping and skin vibrating beneath the heat.

He feels Roger’s hand gripping his chin once more, braces himself, and—

_Smack._

He moans, loud and wanton, at the hot heat rising up beneath his skin when the blow sends his head sideways, still secured by Roger’s careful grip on him.

Roger caresses his cheek again, and John bears to look up.

“Baby’s a little slut for pain, isn’t he? Moaning like that when you’re being smacked ‘round, fuck, you’re like a two-pound slag, Deaky.”

John nods, a bit drunken on pleasure. “Baby’s a slut, ‘s what I am.”

“Don’t do anything without my permission,” Roger says. “Did I tell you to touch me? You think you’ve deserved that already?”

He pouts, lip jutting out as he shakes his head slowly, feeling shame creeping up his body. “No,” he replies. “’m sorry, Rog. I really am. Didn’t mean to.”

Roger tuts. “That’s alright, angel,” he says, and John visibly preens. “Don’t do it next time, ‘right?”

He nods. “I won’t.”

Roger’s thumb comes to place itself behind the bottom row of his teeth, pulling down just a little until John’s jaw become slack, mouth opened obediently. He slowly blinks, in a way that he knows would make his lashes fan out against his cheeks. His eyes must look like a mess, grey and green and red and all sorts of madness going on like the storm in his arousal-dazed mind.

“Look at that,” Roger says, thumb brushing over his spit-slick lips. “Ready to be used, aren’t you?”

John smiles, before nodding. “I am.”

He grabs for the hem of Roger’s trousers, meaning to pull them down a bit more so he can hold onto Roger’s milky thighs, always so soft to the touch, keeps him grounded when he’s drunk off of it. He lets out a snort when the trousers somehow refuse to go past his bum, especially in a position like this, where Roger’s kneeling and things get positively more difficult.

“You always,” John grunts, visibly struggling, “wear such tight trousers, Rog, fucking hell.”

Roger laughs, toppling over above him as he cradles John’s face in his hands, melting away into a kind of Roger-esque boisterousness that John can’t help but to adore. “You’re one to talk with your bloody flares! Sorry if my choice of clothing ain’t fitting.”

“Good thing I’m wearin’ a skirt now, then.”

Roger hums, a pleased little sound that makes John smile. “Good thing.”

John tries pulling onto the hem a bit more, before letting out a huff of frustrated breath when they stuck onto Roger’s skin like they’ve been painted on.

“Just forget ‘bout them, angel,” Roger says, and John lets go, face growing hotter at the casual pet name. He looks up, only to see Roger’s warm eyes staring down at him, head framed by a kind of golden halo that mesmerises him. His hair is all tousled and beautiful, and John almost reaches out to touch before he realises that he’s too far away. “I’ll rid of them later for you.”

John shrugs. “Okay.”

He places a tentative hand over Roger’s crotch, teeth coming to bite down on his bottom lip at the warmthon his hand. Above him, he hears Roger letting out a small whine, doubling over as his fingers come up to tangle themselves in John’s hair.

“You’re so pretty, Rog,” John coos – he just can’t keep it in to himself. His hands work faster, tightening his hold, loosing it, spreading the wetness all over him until he can feel Roger’s entire body consumed by it.

He sees Roger’s face reddening, mouth agape as he pants out small moans through his pink, _pink_ lips. Roger throws his head back, throat bared just for him, skin glistening with sweat in this high-light from the windows around them. There’s a certain gleam to him that has John mesmerised, feeling his own skin tingle at the desire.

He’s so high off of it, and Roger is too, as he sees his lashes flutter close, casting gentle shadows on the reds of his cheeks.

John moves his hand faster with determination – for all the right reasons as Roger groans out, the sound low and gravely, brushing over the surface of John’s skin like something he can touch. It feels warm, filling him up, and he wants more and more of it, wants to see Roger lose himself just like him.

“Fuck,” Roger curses, and John could just swallow that up, eyes closing in their own will as the noises Roger lets out as he presses on continues to send shivers of pride up his spine. “ _Fuck_ , John.”

“Like that?”

Roger’s grip on his hair tightens, as he feels him push his hips forwards to fuck his fist.

“Fucking _hell_ , Deaky.”

“’ll take that as a yes,” John says, a bit smug, a bit snarky, full of satisfaction at the sight of Roger melting.

John strokes him through, feeling every bit of Roger’s hitched breaths, catching sighs, choked out moans that bounces off the four walls of the room like a lewd little symphony that he carefully stores in the back of his mind.

And then Roger pulls him away by his hair, places a careful hand over his own.

“Stop,” Roger orders, and John immediately halts.

He sits up, taking his hand off of Roger’s cock as soon as he can, putting them on his thighs as he waits.

Roger surges, placing his mouth on him like a starved man, and it’s so _wet_ , and hot – everything is – and Joh feels like he’s drowning in sensations, shaking him up and overwhelming him; he gasps at the feeling, opening his mouth as Roger licks into his mouth, groaning at the heat, head dizzy from the way Roger’s hands come to grasp at his waist through the blouse, pulling him closer and closer until his back is arching against him.

He feels Roger’s fingers on the ribbon tying the blouse together, undoing them with a certain dexterity. He lets the fabric fall to the side, revealing the line of his shoulder, collarbones, sheer black against fair skin.

John groans out, right before Roger leans in to place a kiss on his neck, mouth desperate and hurried and far too sudden, but John is thrumming from it, body vibrating at the adolescent feeling of carnal desire that takes over him. It makes him itch all over, and Roger bites onto the junction between his neck and shoulder, making him scream out.

“Rog!”

His neck heats up, chest going red. He hears Roger chuckle against his neck, pressing a kiss there as some form of apology.

“Wanna fuck you,” he hears Roger say in the midst of their mingled, stuttering breaths. “Would you let me, baby?”

John nods, has never nodded to something so fast in his life.

“Need you to say it,” Roger mumbles.

“Yes—fuck, _yes_.” John’s voice sounds foreign even to his own ears, almost coming short of a growl, possessive and wanting.

He’s falling apart as his lips open, gasps tumbling out at the feeling of Roger’s teeth on him, his hot mouth, his hot hands, and he tries to grasp onto Roger to keep himself grounded, hands coming up to grip on the back of his neck, before tangling them onto Roger’s blond tresses, a little damp with sweat but still as soft.

He tugs on the base slightly, and Roger groans out against his skin, the sound lewd.

Roger bites onto his bottom lip, lapping his tongue against the skin, before he yanks his head back, dragging onto his bruised lip. John moans out, and Roger opens his eyes only to stare back at him, gaze dark and beautiful.

John heaves, breathing ragged as he raises his finger to touch at his own lip, eyes widening as he sees blood on the tip.

Roger leans in once more, setting his tongue onto his neck to lick over a spot there, before sucking on it, _hard_.

John throws his head back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, trying to find an ounce of clarity in the midst of haze-like pleasure. His eyes flutter close, his hold on Roger’s body tightening as Roger presses a kiss onto the bruised skin, giving him time to gather some composure.

He feels Roger pull away, pushing at him slightly, holding onto his shoulder to manouvre him, coaxing him to turn around before hooking his chin on his shoulder, hand coming down to caress his inner thigh, skin hot against his. He jumps a little when he feels Roger’s hand circling around him, stroking him leisurely, spreading precome everywhere, consuming him with a kind of pleasure that feels filthy, feels overwhelming.

“Such a pretty little doll,” he hears Roger say next to his ear. “Bend over, angel.”

John does as he’s told, cheeks growing hotter at the pet name, feeling exposed with his face down and his arse up. He hears Roger letting out a moan behind him, a pretty little sound that makes John heat up all over, before the tip of his thumb grazes the rim of his entrance. Then he hears Roger uncapping the lube, squirting a generous amount on his fingers, a moment – perhaps he’s warming it up, and then he gasps, feeling Roger prodding at him.

Roger presses a kiss on the back of his thigh, hand caressing the side of his arse in a relaxing little movement that makes his heartrate go down just a bit.

“Ready?”

John nods against the sheets. “Yeah, go.”

And then Roger pushes in, one finger at a time. John feels himself gasping even from such a light touch, but it’s such a tight fit that he can’t find himself to be _un_ surprised every time. Roger adds another when he gives him a nod, and the sound is lewd, skin squelching against the wetness of lubricant and a cramped space. It’s like a filthy dream that somehow turns into reality, suffocating John and putting him in a heart-stopping limbo.

He feels Roger scissoring him open, gently, even if John said multiple times before that he wants it to hurt. But there is something that he thinks is charming about Roger—it’s the fact that Roger seems to get off on getting him off, coaxing the reactions out of him, turning his gasps into breathy little moans that tells him that he likes what’s he’s doing, wants it more.

It feels like Roger wants John to feel good first, before doing anything that pleases him because his pleasure is something that gets his blood rushing.

John thinks he’s exactly the same, and almost smiles at the thought.

Roger suddenly brushes against something that makes his knees buckle, and he jolts, teeth biting down on his bottom lip as he muffles a gasp.

“Rog—“

“D’you need more time?” Roger presses a kiss again, this time on the base of his spine beneath the blouse.

John nods, back arching. “Just a bit, yeah. That’d be okay.”

Roger scissors him open, pulling out just slightly to squirt out some more lube onto his fingers, and the sound is enough to make John’s face heat up, he can’t even imagine how it _looks_.

He feels him add another fingers, opening him up as best as he could, being careful, and John shuts his eyes, trying to focus on the way it makes him feel full, trying to forget about the drag, relaxes his muscles, makes it feel familiar to his strung body.

Roger brushes against something then, and John feels himself tensing, the feeling sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine, heart accelerating.

“That it?” Roger asks, voice rough but still as gentle as he is.

John nods against the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, go on. ‘think I’m good.”

He feels Roger press a kiss against his thigh, a fleeting little touch that warms him up, making him sigh.

And then he hears Roger tearing the condom open, pouring lube onto himself, and some onto his own fingers, inserting them in John once more, making him whine.

Roger giggles at that, cheeky little bastard, before he feels him leaning over, pressing a small kiss onto his cheek. It’s such a childish move in the midst of... _this_ , that it makes heat grow on John’s cheeks, no doubt turning his face bright scarlet.

But then he feels the tip of Roger’s cock against him, and his breath hitches. Roger’s hand is on his waist, thumb rubbing small circles onto the spot beneath the hem of his velvet skirt. He feels Roger flicking it up, exposing his arse, and John feels somewhat naughty.

Roger pushes in, slowly, just to make sure he has time to adjust, and John lets out a gasp.

He’s been stretched well enough, but there’s something about being filled like this that always takes him by surprise.

“Shit— _Rog_.” His fingers come to grip on the sheets once more, knuckles turning white.

“I’ll make it up to you, baby,” Roger whispers next to his ear, before he feels him biting onto his lobe, making him choke on his own breath. “’s gonna be good, promise.”

John nods, lips pulled into a smile.

“I know.”

And then Roger moves, pushing and pulling, in and out, in a gentle rhythm that he has set – the kind that teases him out of his mind, makes him beg for it.

“ _Ngh,_ ” John croaks out, voice broken. “Faster.”

Roger snaps his hips, and John chokes on his breath.

“Have some patience,” he hears Roger say, voice quiet with underlying storm. “Learn to take what you’re given.”

John whines, something high in his chest, tumbling out of his lips. He sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

He reaches out behind him with one hand, the other keeping himself up on the bed, to place his palm right next to his hole before he pulls the skin to the side, exposing himself even more as Roger starts to pound into him, his hold hard on his waist.

“ _God_ ,” Roger topples over, before letting out a breathy little moan that’s on the edge of desperation. “You’re all spread out for me. Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you, dolly?”

John nods, tilting his head sideways just to make sure Roger sees the little smirk he’s got on his lips, face shielded by the messy locks of his brown hair.

He feels Roger grabbing a lock of his hair, pushing it aside to reveal the slide of his shoulders and neck, black sheer fabric poured over them. The blouse feels to cold against his overheated skin, too sheer, like nothing could ever hide the spots dotting his chest, his shoulders, his neck, his collarbones. He just can’t bring himself to care, not when his body is overthrown by heat, muscles clenching around Roger as he longs for something that feels suffocating.

He grabs onto the sheets next to him, letting his gasps tumble over his lips – he wants Roger to know just how good he’s making him feel, the onslaught of sensations that he can’t handle – and it seems as if Roger has the same intent, with the way his ruby red lips fall open, pretty moans filling the room with no shame.

John groans out, digging his head into the bed as he tightens around him, an action that makes Roger topple over, hand splayed on his arse, gripping onto the skin there with a kind of desperation that makes his breath catch.

John wants more of it. Faster, _faster_ , make him lose it—

And then he slows down.

John feels his own heartbeat pacing at that, as a whine bubbles out of his throat.

He feels Roger’s calloused hand digging itself into his hair, grabbing the locks near the base and yanking his head up hard. It fucking hurts like hell, feels like his hair’s about to rip away, and he can attest to that when he feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes – but _god,_ he fucking loves it. Wants more of it. John is breathing out of his mouth, blood running hot as he lets his grunts spill past his parted lips.

“Little whore wants to get his shit wrecked, yeah?”

John can almost feel his eyes roll back into his head, skin tingling and toes curling beneath the lace of his lingerie as he nods, frantic.

“Yes, yes, yes, _please_.” He doesn’t care if he sounds pathetic, begging to be fucked, but he finds pride in himself because he’s chasing for their pleasure. No shame in it whatsoever. “Please, please, Rog.”

Roger hums behind his ear. “Please what?” he asks. “Got to do better than that if you’re looking to get what you want. Come on. Thought you were a good boy?”

John bites his lips.

And then he feels Roger’s hand against his bare arse, rubbing the skin there, before he lands a loud smack on it, the noise echoing in the four walled room they’re in, bouncing off of them as John jolts forwards from the force. He has no doubt that his skin’s turned red, and he moans at it.

Roger pulls him back by his waist. “Liked that, didn’t you? Always knew you’re a filthy bitch.” He feels him tug a finger beneath a thigh garter, pulling it taut before letting it snap against his skin. “ _Queen’s little whore_. That should be a headline.”

John lets out a groan, something low.

One of Roger’s hand snakes itself to close around his throat. There’s no force behind it, but there’s a thrill running up his spine when he gulps, and feels his Adam’s apple making contact with the palm of Roger’s hand, just lightly constricting him, making his eyes wide with full alert.

“Colour?”

“Green,” John whimpers out, frustration tearing at his skin. “Fucking _green_.”

The thumb that presses into the side of John’s neck digs in a little deeper, and John gasps, breath almost getting caught in his constricting throat.

“Beg some more,” Roger says, burying his face into his hair. “You sound so pretty when you beg – makes me want to fuck into your mouth and see if you still sound so pretty with your voice all fucked up.”

John feels helpless from the way his arousal eats him up alive, heat surrounding him, filling his entire body until all he wants is pleasure—his _and_ Roger’s own. The thought of Roger feeling good because of him just drives him up the wall, thighs almost closing in on themselves just to hold the feeling.

He’s so hard he can barely breathe.

He grinds down, trying to find _something,_ but finding nothing. He almost whines from it, feeling so helpless to the onslaught of pleasure coursing through him. 

“Harder, Rog, please, _fuck_ ,” John gasps out. “Just—fuck me, pleaseplease _please._ Fuck me like you own me, come on—“

Roger grips hard on his waist, before he pulls back until he’s almost away, before thrusting back in.

John lets out a moan, loud like he’s been shot.

Roger’s mouth comes up next to his ear, plastered onto it, as he gasps _so_ prettily, letting out high-pitched little whines in the midst of low-sounding groans that send little shocks up the base of John’s spine. Everything is too hot, he feels like he should shed all of his clothes, but wouldn’t that be such a waste?

Roger’s hand come to settle themselves on his hips then, when John topples down, head falling onto the duvet as he pushes himself up on his elbows, arse up with Roger keeping a vice grip there as he thrusts, as if he’s forcing John to _take._

He gasps out, feeling like every breath he takes is being punched right out with each drive Roger gives, hands all over his body, mouth filthy and eyes a blinded haze. He feels Roger’s fingers on his thigh garters, hooking them behind each strip to pull him back on his cock.

He’s fucking into him like he’s taking what he wants, and John can feel his own breath catching at the realisation, feeling his own cock leaking, dripping down on the bed, making his thighs shake as he stumbles.

“Fuckfuck _fuck_ ,” John mumbles, moaning out something broken and chopped up, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels his eyes rolling to the back of his head, lashes heavy on his lids. The sheets are dirty with tears, his makeup, black and red all over it.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Roger leans over to say through the tangled mess of his hair. “ _God_ , you feel so fucking good, John. Always do.”

John just whines, nodding at the praise, tries to make sure that Roger understands.

“I would fuck you all night if I could.” His voice hitches up at the end, but still rough as rocks, and it makes John’s body tremble, a surging wave running though his spine as he tries to push his hips back.

Roger bunches his hands on the skirt, getting handfuls of it as he grips onto it, using the hold as leverage as he pushes John back onto his cock, over and over.

John arches his back further, biting on the sheets beneath him to muffle his sounds before he feels Roger’s hand yanking on his hair to pull him away.

He could stay like this forever.

But lube eventually dries out, and Roger pulls away for a moment. John lets out a small whine at that, and he feels Roger’s hand caressing the side of his thigh, perhaps to calm him down or something of that sort. It seems like Roger has got out a _lot_ of it on his cock, or on his hand, because he can hear the bottle squirting the lube out for quite some time, and he braces himself for whatever it is that comes next. Something tells him that it’s going to be significantly wetter, _filthy_ , and his blood runs hot at the thought.

He’s always liked it messy, anyway.

He feels the tip of Roger’s cock against his entrance and relaxes his breath, gasping when the blond pushes in and the liquid comes surging inside him, some spilling out to trickle down his thighs. It’s so fucking filthy that he can’t help but moan out, teeth grazing the sheets beneath him. The sound must’ve been wanton, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he hears Roger moan out at the feeling, all high-pitched and pretty.

“God, you feel so fucking good, Deaky,” he hears him say. And then Roger’s hand runs down the back of his stocking-covered thigh, warm hands right against damp skin. “Feels like you were made for this, sweetheart. Made to be fucked and used well. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

John whimpers loud, fingers clenching in the sheets as he arches his back.

“Getting fucked and begging for it,” Roger continues as he thrusts in, and John is losing his mind. “Gagging for cock in your mouth ‘cause you just can’t _bear_ to have your holes empty. Needs something to fill them up, ‘s that it?”

Roger pushes in, hard, grazing against his spot lightly. John melts.

“Needy little slag, “ Roger says, low and gravely against the back of his neck. “Never gets satisfied at whatever you’re given. Wants more and more, yeah? Isn’t that right, John?”

John replies with a moan, head dizzy at Roger’s taunting words.

Roger tugs hard at his hair in warning. “Answer me when I ask you a question.” He tuts, condescending. “You should fucking well be glad someone wants to fuck you – who would even touch such a useless fucking whore? Can’t even do something simple.”

“ _Ngh_ , sorry, Rog, I’m sorry,” John sputters out. “I want more, I’m yours. I wanna get fucked hard, pleaseplease _please_ , god, ‘m so—I wan’ it so bad, please.”

“’Course you do, babydoll,” Roger says in a drawl, voice pitching lower the more he moans, a dirty little sound that scorches in the back of John’s mind.

Roger fucks into him, over and over, and his mind blanks.

John has his head tilted to the side, and then he feels Roger’s hand sneaking up into his hair, pulling at it and tugging his head up.

“Open your eyes.”

John does exactly that, and he can see parts of him and Roger in the wardrobe mirror across the small room. He looks at himself, face red and neck in no better state, hair a mess with Roger behind him, hand firm and beautiful red lips pried apart.

He can’t bear to look at himself more, even if he _loves_ it, but it – he can’t, or he’ll explode. He ducks his head, letting the noises fall out of his lips freely at the feeling of Roger filling him up, fucking into him.

Roger growls near his ear, and the hand in his hair now grips onto his chin harshly, forcing him to look up and open his eyes, right into the sight of himself on the brink of losing it.

“I said,” Roger warns, and John feels a shiver running up his spine, “open your fucking eyes.”

John moans, loud, at the sight of his body rocking back and forth against Roger, hair flowing down the side of his neck as his swollen mouth parts to let his gasps tumble out of it. He looks dirty, but somehow he can’t look away now, transfixed by the way his own lids weaken and his noises come out more uncontrolled.

His eyes fix upon Roger, and the sight of that alone makes his head spin. He’s sweating, parts of skin and cheeks tinted a blotchy red that contrasts his tanned skin in a way that charms him. Roger’s eyes flutter close, red lips opened as he gasps out, whining, groaning - doused up in pleasure and the beauty that is exuded by the imperfection of it all. He looks beautiful, John thinks to himself, as Roger lolls his head to the side and grips tighter onto his body, his skin, like he’s tearing him apart and putting him back together again. 

“Rog! Fuck.”

“You’re a pretty sight, don’t you think?” Roger asks, lips brought down near the side of his neck. “Bet you could come just from looking at yourself alone.”

John croaks out a little ‘nngh’ sound that sounds nearly incomprehensible. He lets his head fall, and Roger cradles it.

All the sudden John feels wetness against his chin, and he looks up to meet his own widening eyes, horrified to find that he’s drooling all over himself, out of his open mouth. He almost looks away, whimpering out of sheer embarrassment, but Roger just groans at the sight.

“Look at you,” he says. “ _Look at you._ Drooling all over yourself already like a filthy whore? You’re so fucking messy, John.”

He feels Roger’s thumb against his bottom lip, collecting the spit there and swiping it along the puffed up surface before sticking it in, pressing it down flat against John’s tongue. John closes his mouth around it like a crazed man, keeps his eyes locked on Roger in the mirror as he bobs his head up and down, imagining that it was Roger’s cock instead.

He hears his lover moan out, before taking his thumb out and replacing it with his index and middle finger. John keeps a vice grip on his wrist and bobs his head still, hollowing his cheeks and slurping obscenely at the damp skin.

“Fuck,” he hears Roger groan out, the sound so dirty and so very _Roger_ that he can’t help but to suck on his fingers with even more desperation because _he’s_ the one who’s making Roger feel like this.

He feels Roger grazing onto that little spot inside of him that makes him shiver, and the moment he makes show of that, Roger keeps his pace, never changing a thing as he brushes against it over and over. John feels his vision clouding, head dizzy as he lets his mouth open slack, Roger’s fingers dragging in and out of his tongue.

He tries his best to close his mouth around them once more, and Roger pushes them back in, making him gag. He sucks with determination, not wanting to let Roger down as he lets it consume him, head bobbing as he moans.

“God, you’re so—“ he hears Roger say, words cut up.

John just nods in reply, rapid as he whines high in his throat, one of his hands coming down to grip at himself, spreading the wetness around him entirely, not even caring if he’s being disobedient, so filled up with heat, blood rushing in his veins – his mind’s an empty space, _more, more, more,_ he can’t fucking focus – as he grips on himself hard, hand frantic and fast.

Roger then places his mouth on the side of his neck, hips moving faster and faster, _harder –_ he’s dizzy – and John takes it all, sobbing at the pleasure that courses through him.

“John— _Deaky_ ,” he hears Roger say. “I’m gonna...”

“Do it,” John says through ragged breaths, eyes closed shut as he gasps. “Fucking _do it_ , Rog.”

At that, Roger tenses up like a bowstring pulled taut, hips stilling and stuttering against his own as he feels Roger letting go.

Roger moans out, euphoric and beautiful, breathy and so full of pleasure that John sighs. He feels Roger thrusting into him, a little sloppy as he rides through his orgasm, over-stimulating himself as John keeps fucking into his own fist.

He feels his hand being yanked away, before his hand is replaced by Roger’s own, calloused palm against overheated skin. He’s so sensitive he could feel _everything_ , and he loses himself in it, moaning into the sheets, messing up his makeup even more he isn’t sure if it’s still on his face.

And then he feels Roger’s hand tightening around his cock, coaxing him to fuck into the grip with more fervour – faster, _god_ – doubling over when the heat starts to pulse in his blood, in his entire body, glowing red, white-hot, and then black.

“Come on, baby, come on, John,” Roger says against his ear, skin hot and voice heavy, too much breath on it. “Come on, come for me. Wanna see my pretty little doll make a mess of himself—come _on_.”

John convulses, gripping on the sheets hard when he feels the heat exploding behind the back of his lids.

He faintly feels Roger kissing the top of his head, the hot breath of him sighing hitting the skin on his exposed shoulder, hands rubbing the sides of his body.

“Good boy.”

* * *

Roger is wiping a wet cloth over his face gently, trying to get some of the leftover makeup off of his face, and John lets him as he lays back against the pillows, feeling like the fuzz is slowly fading away. His legs feel absolutely weak, like he can’t move at all, and he lets himself be in that post-orgasmic state, still in his outfit, refusing when Roger offered to take it off for him.

He loves it on him when he’s like this, coming down from a high. It’s all rumpled and dirty—the very proof of their pleasure, and his.

Roger decided to light up a cigarette at some point, and the blue-grey smoke is twirling on the ceiling above their heads, dancing fancy pirouettes as a witness of this intimacy. It smells like Marlboro Red and sweat and sex, and John smiles through it, hand fiddling with the black silk ribbon of his blouse.

He feels Roger caressing his cheek with the back of his hand, his touch always gentle unlike anything John has ever felt before. It’s fascinating how Roger handles him with such care, even if he can be quite reckless.

“Did I hurt you, sweetheart? Want some water, anything I could get from the kitchen? I’m sure we’ve got some leftover Digestives somewhere if you fancy a little snack.”

John shakes his head, a dopey smile pulled across his lips as the haze behind his eyelids start to fly away like the remnants of cigarette smoke, dispersing along with the tingle in his spine. The bed feels wonderful against his back, and he melts himself into it.

“No, I’m alright. And you didn’t hurt me – you were wonderful, Rog,” he replies, voice disintegrating as it mingles with his breath. “Fucking hell. I can’t even bring myself to get mad at you for peeping on me, not if it gets me a shag like this, _christ_.”

The drop is always something unexpected, the way his limbs just turn to liquid and his mind just become jumbled—but he’s learnt how to deal with that. Especially now in Roger’s arms, he thinks he might just be able to fall asleep right away.

Roger chuckles, before he moves to gather John in his arms and nuzzle the junction between his hickey-littered neck and shoulder. He feels Roger pressing a kiss there, chaste and soft over the purple and red hues dotting his skin like the very proof of his pleasure. Roger always feels so warm against him, never once cold, and John can always feel Roger’s energy radiating off of him, in turn giving _him_ the fervour to do something as passionately as Roger does.

Even if it’s mundane, like getting the groceries.

(“That requires focus too, you know,” Roger would say. And John would just laugh, before kissing his forehead.)

“Hm, you feed my ego all too much,” he hears Roger say. He lets out a laugh at that. “You’re so pretty, Deaks. Maybe next time you could fuck me in a dress. Yeah? How d’you think of that?”

John chuckles, taking one of Roger’s hand in his and squeezing it close to his chest, close to his heart, where Roger bloody well belongs.

“Yeah,” he says, biting down a smile as his heart flutters with a familiar warmth that he feels when he’s just like this, doing nothing, with Roger and nothing else. “Yeah, I’m in. I’ve got a collection, in fact. Black, red, blue, take your pick.”

“Cheeky git.”

He feels Roger reaching up to ruffle his already mussed-up hair, and the brown tresses are now blocking parts of his vision, but he can see Roger’s clear blue eyes like they’re some kind of oasis on the dry land.

“I fucking love you.”

John snorts, before wrapping his arms around Roger’s waist and spinning him around on the bed until their position changes. Roger always looks so beautiful, then and now and in later times, he’ll always look beautiful. But at the moment, beneath the soft light streaming from the windows blanketing his fair hair, spread out on the duvet, John feels as if Roger has shot an arrow through his chest.

It hurts, like how all feelings do, but it hurts in the loveliest way. It hurts in a way that grabs at John’s chest and makes him never want to let Roger go. And with the way Roger is holding onto the skin of his exposed waist, he thinks that Roger _might_ just think the same about him.

Roger’s eyes, clearer than the sky outside, clearer than any London mornings, and hazier than the misty afternoon—John never gets tired of looking at them. His neck, red and purple and all sorts of indigo; they match his.

(You’re mine and I’m yours until the end.)

Roger pulls a little face, and John feels a chuckle bubbling in his chest, spilling out of his swollen lips.

“I fucking love you too, Rog.”

He’d scream it on the top of his lungs, if he could. On stage at the end of their show, with Fred’s microphone shoved near his lips as he grins, metal chrome of the stand shining bright against the cheap spotlight. Roger would be wearing his stupid rainbow wig and he would be drenched in satin and light silk.

That’s what he imagines it would be like. And then he would kiss his boyfriend in front of thousands, teeth clashing against each other as they grin.

_I fucking love you!_

**Author's Note:**

> you've reached the end. thank you for reading !!! x  
> ( pst,, turned this into a series - so please do expect for more. i promise.)
> 
> omg !!! hit me up on tumblr and let’s scream about jon and roj [here](https://foxival.tumblr.com)


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